


all's faire

by Griftings



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: #dickoff2019, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Renaissance Festival, Awkward Flirting, F/M, Humor, Minor Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark, Renaissance Faires, can i throw this into #dickoff2019?, i'm gonna throw this into #dickoff2019, most of the starks show up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:07:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21663424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Griftings/pseuds/Griftings
Summary: She lifts up her bell to clang it again when, from one of the stages off the dirt path, she hears a man’s voice calling out, amplified by a microphone, “Girl! Lovely girl!” Frowning, she turns to face the stage, mentally going through the festival schedule. Around two in the afternoon, on the Braavosi stage, so--Oh.Him.She should have known.Jaqen H’ghar, sitting casually on the steps of the Braavosi stage with his legs stretched out, straight up manspreading and looking very devil-may-care, flips a knife between his fingers and smiles at her over the crowd, acting as though he doesn’t have rows and rows of patrons watching him avidly. “Lovely girl,” he says again, and beckons her closer with the hand not flipping the knife. The crowd at his set all turn to look at her curiously.Or, the one where Arya Stark is one of the handlers for the direwolf show at the Royal Baratheon Game of Thrones Renaissance Festival, and Jaqen H'ghar is a knife thrower who needs some assistance.
Relationships: Jaqen H'ghar/Arya Stark
Comments: 24
Kudos: 472





	all's faire

**Author's Note:**

> lacking an asoiaf-equivalent to the word _renaissance_ , i just went with that. to those of you unfamiliar with renaissance festivals, this is probably the dumbest and most niche thing i've ever written and i apologize. to those of you who _are_ familiar with renaissance festivals, this is still probably the dumbest and most niche thing i've ever written and i apologize.
> 
> this was supposed to go into _lovely._ as part of #dickoff2019 but after i got to about 7k and realized that porn wasn't going to happen anytime soon i started having doubts. when it hit 10k i decided it should just be it's own thing. yes, i'm working on the next chapter of benediction, and yes it should be up relatively soon. i just wanted to have some fun writing dumb flirting nerds. i've never actually worked at a renaissance festival, but i have spent waaaaaay too much money at my local one, and have friends who DO work there.
> 
> i may write a sandor/sansa follow-up at some point, idk we'll see. anyway hope you enjoy. :B

_ Clang! _

Arya takes a deep breath and shouts, projecting her voice over the dull roar of the crowd, “One hour, come see the Wolves of Winter in one hour!” She gives the bell in her hand another good shake, raising it up over her head.  _ Clang! _ “That’s three-fifteen for you peasants with sundials!”

There’s a snort of laughter from behind her, and Arya turns to raise an eyebrow over her shoulder at her sister. Sansa, one hand holding loosely to Lady’s harness, shrugs. “Sundials,” she offers as excuse, voice pitched low so the patrons nearby won't hear. Arya rolls her eyes.

“Well I can’t say _watches,_ can I?” she returns, just as quietly. “Don’t want Varys breathing down my neck again, whining about _breaking_ _immersion._ ” She lifts the bell once more, gives it another shake and feels a vindictive sort of pleasure in watching people in the crowds turn to glare at her for the loud _clang!_ and then startle when they see Lady walking behind her. She raises her voice again and shouts, “Wolves of Winter, one hour! See the direwolves and learn about these fantastic beasts in one hour at the Winterfell pavilion!” Then, quieter once more, she whines to Sansa, “Why do _I_ always get stuck shilling?”

“Because you’re the loudest of us,” Sansa says with another shrug, patting Lady between her shoulders.

"Rickon," Arya points out dryly.

Now it's Sansa's turn to roll her eyes. “Okay, the loudest of us who doesn’t have the attention span of a gnat." Arya considers this, then concedes the point without arguing. After another  _ clang! _ of the bell Sansa continues, "At least you only have to do call for the last show today.  _ We’re _ on the move constantly between sets.”

"Like you don't spend half the time making cow eyes at Clegane's tent anyway," Arya grumbles, shifting her weight to one hip and fanning herself with a hand. The part of the dirt path they're on currently has no tree cover, and therefore no shade to hide in, and she's positively cooking beneath her fur cloak. "And I don't mean the one he sells out of."

Sansa whips around to glare at her, a flush rising on her cheeks. Arya, because she's had decades to perfect being an annoying little sister, clarifies with a smirk, "I mean the one in his pants."

For a moment Sansa looks like she's preparing a chastising tirade, her face doing that red splotchy thing it always does when she's embarrassed that clashes spectacularly with her ginger hair, but whatever invectives she might unleash are waylaid by a chorus of gasps. It's like a switch visibly flips in her head, because Sansa immediately stops wishing death on Arya with her eyes and instead turns a sunny smile at a group of young children outside of one of the sweets booths, staring up at the wolf with wide eyes.

Two of the kids are in costumes that she recognizes as having been bought from the various vendors of the festival, a princess in a huge tulle-covered dress of bright purples and pinks that screams of Lommy’s handiwork with a sewing machine, and a pirate with a little wooden sword that looks like it may have come from Gendry’s shop. One of the children is inexplicably in a Star Wars outfit, clearly some cheap trick-or-treating getup. Not really Renaissance Festival attire, but always nice to see kids interested in participating anyway. Arya knows that the outfits sold at the booths are pricey (which is fair because they’re all almost exclusively handmade) and some parents just can’t afford to put their kids in period costumes. She’s learned not to judge. They don’t get a cast-discount on wares the way she does.

“Do you want to pet her?” Sansa asks the kids, bending down to their level. When the parents standing near the kids start making nervous noises she smiles up at them charmingly. It's frankly disturbing, how honeyed and simpering she becomes in front of patrons, considering Arya's shared a bathroom with her for years and knows exactly how vicious she can be. Gods forbid she doesn't have enough hot water to take a shower lasting  _ exactly _ twenty-one minutes. Arya watches her sister work, impressed and disgusted in equal measure. “She’s perfectly safe, I promise. Come on, little princess,” Sansa cajoles, soft and sweet, and takes the hand of the little girl in the pink dress to gently bring her closer. She sets the pudgy palm against Lady’s flank and shows her how to pet the wolf slowly. “See? She’s soft, isn’t she?” After a couple of seconds where Lady doesn’t react beyond a wag of her tail, the other two children step forward, their own hands outstretched.

As the smallest and most docile of the wolves, and the one who best tolerates the cage-muzzle they’re required to wear around guests for liability reasons, Lady is the only one they let out into the crowds like this. Arya cannot  _ begin _ to imagine the chaos that trying to wrestle Nymeria into the muzzle and harness would bring, much less one of the boys like Shaggydog. Ghost would probably be calm enough, but they like to save him as the showstopper for the set. People go nuts over the big albino wolf. But Lady is true to her name, a perfect lady, and all day she patiently allows dozens of sticky-fingered screaming children to shower her with loud, obnoxious affection while their parents fret anxiously in the background. Nymeria would probably try to take some hands off after a few minutes, but Lady has never so much as tucked her tail at the toddlers who descend upon her  _ en masse. _

While the brats  _ ooh _ and  _ ahh _ over the direwolf and Sansa soaks up the adoration like a whorish little attention-seeking sponge, Arya rings her bell again,  _ clang! _ “Wolves of Winter, one hour!” she shouts. Most of the crowd passing by and kicking dust up from the dirt paths ignore her, too focused on the other sights and smells and sounds of the festival to pay attention to yet another dipshit in costume hawking, but some point at Lady as they go by, excitement on their faces. She hopes some of them will come to the show; Lady’s cool and all, but Nymeria’s awesome, and for their last set they make the wolves sing. Way neater than Lady just chilling on the ground while some dumb kids pet her.

She lifts up her bell to clang it again when, from one of the stages off the dirt path, she hears a man’s voice calling out, amplified by a microphone, “Girl! Lovely girl!” Frowning, she turns to face the stage, mentally going through the festival schedule. Around two in the afternoon, on the Braavosi stage, so--

Oh.  _ Him. _ She should have known.

Jaqen H’ghar, sitting casually on the steps of the Braavosi stage with his legs stretched out, straight up manspreading and looking very devil-may-care, flips a knife between his fingers and smiles at her over the crowd, acting as though he doesn’t have rows and rows of patrons watching him avidly. “Lovely girl,” he says again, and beckons her closer with the hand not flipping the knife. The crowd at his set all turn to look at her curiously. “How serendipitous! A man has listened intently for her sweet bell, and now she rings it for him. Come, come, join him." Again he motions her to come forward, tossing the knife high into the air as he does and catching it by the blade without looking when it drops. (The guests still watching him instead of her gasp in delighted surprise. Or maybe disappointment. It’s hard to tell sometimes with the crowds that come to shows where the acts could potentially draw blood.)

Arya is used to him shouting flirtatiously as she passes during his shows, but she’s definitely  _ not _ used to him trying to get her to actually join him. Normally she just shouts back some blithe acknowledgement that’ll leave his crowd giggling and him sighing in mock-disappointment, but now she’s not sure how to react to him calling her up. That’s a major performer faux pas, pulling a cast member into an unfamiliar set without warning or talking about it beforehand. Caught on the spot, with the crowd at his set staring at her expectantly, she blinks at him blankly for a moment before Sansa lightly nudges her in the back.

"Say something," her sister hisses quietly. "You can't just ignore him!"

She swallows, then pushes down her surprise to force a smirk back at him. Bad form of him to call out another performer without any warning whatsoever, but it'd be worse form of her to shoot him down in front of the crowd.  _ They _ don't know this is unplanned; they probably assume this is just another scripted part of the show.

It's fine, she can wing it until she figures out what he wants. She's got this. She took improv classes with Izembaro for shit specifically like this. Doing live sets with animals often requires some manner of improv. No biggie. Just… say  _ something, _ Arya, they're all staring and waiting, come on!

She takes a deep breath, then flips her hair over her shoulder and puts her hands on her hips, shouts from her diaphragm to project her voice to make up for the fact that he's got a mic and she doesn't. "Jaqen H'ghar, you scoundrel!" His grin widens cheekily at the acknowledgement, a hint of relief on his face that she's playing along, and the people on the path to either side of her stop and glance about nervously, as if suddenly unsure whether they're intruding on a sketch. Well. Might as well make use of the unexpected publicity. "You mean our sweet Lady, surely!" She reaches out behind her blindly, trusting the direwolf; she doesn't have the same bond with Lady that she does with Nymeria, but Sansa's wolf is just as intelligent as her own and knows how to read cues; she steps forward to butt her forehead into Arya's palm happily. The crowd murmurs softly and Jaqen's smile grows even further, one of his eyebrows raised. Arya meets his gaze challengingly. "After all, she's the loveliest girl here."

"The wolf is truly spectacular," Jaqen agrees, flipping the knife back and forth between his hands, the motions almost idle and careless. "But a man desires a girl now. Her hands look delicate, yet deft and sure." His smile turns into a smirk, salacious and flirty, and half the women in the crowd (and some of the men) break into tittering, giggling whispers as he purrs, voice amplified by the ear mic, "He could find such fine use for them."

Oh, what she wouldn't give to shove that stupid knife directly up his ass.

"Keep talking like that and I'll wrap them around your throat," Arya replies sweetly, and Jaqen's laugh prompts the crowd to laughter as well, assured by his response that the threat is in good humor. If only they fucking knew.

"A man has something for them to wrap around," he promises with a wink. More giggling from the crowd, and he turns away from her to look at the audience with mock offense and a shake of his head, saying, "He means a knife, of course! Dirty birds." Then he tilts his head towards Arya once more, the smirk on his face betraying his previous words, and continues, "Though perhaps while her hands are occupied, he could ring her bell for her, yes?"

The patrons hoot with delight and Arya feels her face flush the same way Sansa's had earlier.

Utter jackass. This isn't even an eighteen-plus show.

Admittedly, she doesn't know Jaqen particularly well. His group, all Essosi who perform different shows at the same stage and who have been collectively and (mostly) affectionately referred to as  _ the Braavosi Bastards _ by the rest of the cast, have only been with the company for one season before this one; two months' worth of weekends at King's Landing, and now one week into the fresh season at Harrenhal. Mostly she dislikes him on the principal that a good part of his act seems to be spent flirting with women in the audience instead of actually doing knife tricks. She knows that sort of shit appeals to the crowds, but in her opinion if half your set is shitty stand up then it's a bad set. He's catcalled her during his shows before if she'd happened to pass by with her stupid bell, but this is the first time he's engaged her so adamantly.

He hops to his feet, the movement graceful and fluid, and then beckons her again, holding one hand outstretched towards her and flipping the knife into the air again with the other. "Come, this man will show you."

This time she doesn't have to have Sansa prod her into action; unprofessional to spring this on her, but if he's that insistent on her coming on stage with him then he probably legitimately needs help. Catcalling during a set when she passes by she can sort of forgive-- he's male and attractive and the character he plays for his shows seems to be the roguish type, so he leans into it. Other performers catcall each other all the time, bring attention to each other during their own shows, almost like free advertisement. Camaraderie. The crowd likes it, if it's in good fun.

He's never actually bothered her whenever they happen to meet off the clock. They pass occasionally, in the tent city on the grounds the traveling cast stays in. Some performers only work at their local venue, but people like the Starks, and apparently the Essosi group, travel to different locations with the company each season. But whenever she's met him out of costume he's been nice enough, not nearly so obnoxiously flirty as he tends to be while on stage. They'll nod at each other, if they make eye contact. Mostly they just ignore each other, which is fine with her.

She doesn't  _ hate _ him. He's just…  _ annoying. _

But still. There's something approaching desperation in the way he keeps insisting on her to join him, something that sets off those little Stark alarm bells in her head saying that another performer needs help. Her Dad has always been big on working together with the rest of the cast. He's nuts about teamwork being dreamwork, or whatever.

She turns and shrugs at Sansa, who shrugs back, then raises her chin and struts down the dirt path towards the stage, people parting to let her by. Jaqen has a shit-eating grin as she approaches, passing rows of patrons watching the both of them excitedly.

Sometimes the attention makes her nervous, the eyes on her; Dad and Robb are the ones who actually speak during the wolf shows, she just has to handle Nymeria. She's not one of the performers who actually  _ performs. _ She helps out occasionally at shops, mans the card reader for vendors if they have to run for a piss or something, but that's usually the extent of the one-on-one interactions she has to do with guests, since Sansa usually deals with them when she does her rounds with the bell. Sometimes it's harder than others, to walk around confidently dressed like a huge nerd with a dumb bell, especially on opening weekends when they get most of the people unfamiliar with the whole  _ festival environment. _

Whenever she feels anxious or overwhelmed she pretends she's Nymeria, stalking between people, powerful and lithe, a predator surrounded by prey. It's stupid and she knows it, but it helps the stage fright. Hot Pie says when she's in costume she has a resting murder-face.

He's still grinning when she reaches the stage and takes his hand, letting him pull her up the steps. "Alright, H'ghar," she says once she's on his level, one hand on her hips once more, facing him at angle so as not to close her body to the audience. Thank you, improv classes. "How can a girl assist?"

He smiles and, still holding her other hand, brings it up to his lips to kiss her knuckles. She's tempted to fucking deck him-- but up close and beneath the dark guyliner ringing his eyes to make the bright blue of them pop better at a distance, he looks… fucking exhausted, actually. His skin is paler than she's used to seeing it and there are circles beneath his eyes that suggest a lack of sleep. The corners of his mouth are pinched despite the smile, as if maybe it hurts to keep up. Arya falters for a moment, blinking in surprise, before drawing herself back up.

Yeah, okay. He definitely needs help. Something's wrong.

She nods at him, just the slightest bob of her chin. She's got his back, she'd do it for any fellow performer. That's just how the job works, it’s their livelihood. You look after each other to make things good for the guests because entertained guests leave better tips. Keep up appearances. Whatever is wrong with him, the audience can't know.

The show must go on.

"A man is delighted by a girl's presence," he assures her, putting enough flirtatious emphasis on  _ presence _ that the patrons giggle again, but beneath the bravado there's genuine thankfulness in his eyes.

When he actually puts her to work, it's relatively simple tasks. She sets up targets for him where he instructs her too, cheers obligingly when he hits them to help hype the crowd, and then fetches them back while they improv some flirtatious patter, since that seems to be his go-to. It's easy enough, though irritating at times, to pretend coyness while he pretends to be attracted to her; this is  _ so _ not her purview, to have attention like this on her.

He should have called Sansa up to help him instead of her, Sansa flirts with the best of them and she'd give as good as she got. He'd have to deal with Clegane giving him the stinkeye for a bit, but he'd get a better stage partner out of if.

Arya, not used to a guy being so overt about his intentions, even if they are just acting, can only do her best to keep up. Aside from a short-lived fling with Gendry, she's never had much going for her in the way of actual male attention, which is fine because she's also never been particularly interested in dating. Gendry's the only festival guy she's ever liked enough to consider, and he's nice but  _ way _ too clingy as a boyfriend and they'd mutually decided to just stay friends, and she moves around too much to date anyone who's not in the company.

Considering this isn't in any way how she'd planned her afternoon to go, she thinks she's doing alright. She's not getting jeered off stage, anyway.

To his credit, Jaqen keeps the flirting relatively tame. Being a performer the way he is means he plays to the crowds, reads the mood of a room, and it seems she's included in his showman's assessment; maybe it's her body language or maybe he just knows boundaries better than she’d thought, but his jokes stay light and superficial, never pushing too far. The closest he gets to truly inappropriate is when he makes a bad doggy-style joke as she bends to grab a knife from a ground target, but given her own show she’s pretty used to those and they don’t faze her much anymore. The audience boos him playfully, and at her exaggerated look of disappointment he heaves a full-bodied sigh and admits, "Yes, yes, low hanging fruit, a man knows."

Whatever funk he's in isn't infecting his skill as a knife thrower; without fail he hits the bullseye of every target she places. She glances around curiously, as surreptitiously as she can-- doesn't he have a partner for this set? He does, she knows he does, a woman about her size, blonde and Braavosi and thin as a twig who he trades scripted barbs with to amuse the audience. Arya's seen them do a trick where the tiny blonde tosses knife after knife at Jaqen that he plucks out of the air to add to the collection he's juggling, the both of them concentrating on timing the throws perfectly while still managing to banter.

Where is she? His usual partner? Is the blonde not being here why he needed Arya’s help?

To her surprise, they play off of each other well, even as unprepared as she is. He sets her up for obvious jokes and she's familiar enough with his shows from having passed them regularly on her rounds with the bell that she knows most of his easier tricks and can, if not word-for-word replicate, then at least mock the patter of his usual partner. At some point the constant running around the stage gets too hot for her beneath the warm spring sun and she sheds the fur cloak she wears as part of her costume --authentic coyote pelt, head and all with the snout hiding a clasp to tie around her shoulder, just like the First Men used to wear, courtesy of Tormund's fur- and feather-wear shop-- and the patrons hoot and holler when doing so reveals that she's shirtless beneath it, her breasts securely covered by a leather armor harness but her midriff and arms exposed. It's not  _ meant _ to be sexy, it's because she's from the North and spring in the Riverlands is fucking  _ hot _ so she can only wear so many layers of fur and leather without overheating, but Jaqen fans himself anyway and pretends to go weak in the knees, to the delight of the crowd and her own embarrassed consternation.

Time passes in his set quickly and with only a few stumbles between the two of them. It’s midafternoon so it’s his final show, and she knows that normally his showstopper is him flinging knives towards his partner while she holds a target up, moving it around for him to aim at. To Arya’s knowledge he’s never missed and hit the blonde woman, but they’ve probably practiced that act for gods only know how long, and while she’s willing to improv some banter for half an hour she is  _ not _ willing to yes-and herself into getting knives thrown at her. But he doesn’t bring it up, just closes out the show with a few jokes and a bow that he pulls her into.

“A man thanks her,” Jaqen says after bowing, then turns to the audience. “She has performed well for us, has she not?” The rows of patrons cheer, clapping and stomping their feet, and Arya grins and bows again. They worked the crowd well enough that she feels alright with the attention now, more comfortable than she had been before, even with the flirting. To her surprise, he turns to her and asks, “If the guests hurry, they could get to the Winterfell pavillion to see a girl’s own show, yes?”

She blinks at him, jarred, suddenly reminded of what she'd been doing before and what he'd pulled her away from. Three-fifteen is the last wolf show--

_ Oh shit what time is it-- _

His last show is at one-fifty and lasts roughly an hour, and they’d gone through most of the material of it that she’s familiar with together, so it’s… maybe three? Not quite? And Winterfell is clear across the other side of the grounds-- oh shit. Oh,  _ shit. _ Dad’s going to skin her alive.

“If they hurry,” she agrees, and sends him a meaningful look even as she pulls her hand from his where he’d been holding it for their joint bow. He places that hand over his heart and nods at her, before turning to grab her coyote-skin cloak from where she’d thrown it over one of his targets. He wraps it around her shoulders and clasps it for her while the patrons giggle and sigh and she rolls her eyes, and then he reaches for her bell where she'd left it beside the cloak and gives it a quick little  _ cl-clang! _ The crowd laughs, cheering at the callback to his earlier comment, and Arya takes the bell from him with an imperious sniff, biting her lip to stop a smile.

Damn. He's sort of charming, when he wants to be.

“Arya Stark, everyone!” he tells the audience once that’s done, and she exits the stage as gracefully as she can, power-walking down the aisles and feeling the tail of the coyote pelt brush against her ankles. As she slips down an alleyway on the trail between the sweetshop she’d been in front of earlier and another storefront, intent on going through the cast-only paths that run behind the permanent structures and between the areas of the grounds that guests can be in, she hears his voice fading with distance, “...should see the show, the wolves sing and a man weeps…”

It takes her a few minutes to navigate the cast-only paths and she runs down them breathlessly, waving at the cast members she passes as she goes: Ygritte, who owns an archery supplies booth, leaning against the back wall of a store and attacking a turkey leg with fervor on her lunch break; Hot Pie who works one of the bakeries taking a nap at a picnic table; two of the fire jugglers, Berric and Thoros, sharing a smoke before their last show. In the background there is the sound of the crowd, as ever, the excited chattering of patrons enthusiastically perusing the wares of the shops, the occasional drunken shout of someone who’s had too much beer, the rhythmic thumping of old Davos’ walking stick against the wooden floor of the Shipbreaker’s Lookout stage to set the time as he and his gaggle of sons sing old sea shanties, the distant roar of  _ Tarth, Tarth, Tarth! _ and answering cry of  _ Goldhand, Goldhand! _ and then screams; Brienne and Jaime must be the last competitors of the day’s joust. Sounds she’s been hearing since she was old enough to put on a costume and help her parents carry equipment.

Arya comes out just behind the Winterfell pavilion, where the wolves’ paddock is. The only two in there currently are Nymeria and Lady. Shit. They’ve already pulled the boys out to prepare them for the show. Nymeria lifts her head from where it’s laying on her paws, sees Arya, and scrambles upright, her tail wagging frantically. She bolts towards the fence of the paddock, just barely skidding to a halt in front of it, and whines, putting her front paws on the top of it to lean over and lick the air at Arya, dancing in place.

“I wasn’t gone  _ that _ long,” she chastises her silly wolf, and then slips between the bars of the fence and grabs Nymeria’s halter, pushing the beast away from where she’s trying desperately to sniff the back of Arya’s neck. “We just had a show a few hours ago, dude, chill.”

At ten hands high at the shoulders, Nymeria is firmly in the middle in terms of the wolves’ sizes; Ghost is the largest, then Shaggy, then Nymeria and Grey Wind so close together that they’re basically the same height, then Summer, and finally Lady as the smallest. Arya leads her forward, waving at Lady as she goes. Sansa’s wolf, tired from a day of walking around and getting screamed at excitedly by small children, wags her tail in acknowledgement without otherwise moving from where she’s laying flat on her side, legs stretched out and toebeans wiggling.

Arya takes Nymeria out of the paddock, closes the gate behind her, and the two of them trot towards the enclosed back portion of the Winterfell pavilion. Right when she gets inside she hears the microphones kick on, hears Dad and Robb greet the guests that have collected on the benches to watch. Jon is inside as well when she gets there, with Ghost; the Winterfell pavilion is the largest show stage for the express purpose of being able to house all of the wolves inside. (It's also big because they share it with the Umbers, who do a traditional war march set twice a day, so all of the instruments they play are stashed backstage as well.)

“Where have  _ you _ been?” Jon asks with a small smile where he’s lounging against the wall, Ghost laying at his feet. It’s such a strange sight, even for Arya who’s seen it almost her entire life: a massive direwolf, easily as large as a quarter horse, curled up nose-to-tail on the floor. She could literally use him as a mattress to sleep on. Hell, she thinks she actually  _ has _ used him as a mattress after drinking too much at one of the cast parties. He wags once and lifts his head to sniff at Nymeria’s paws, who’s utterly ignoring him in favor of trying to bathe Arya’s face with her tongue.

“Doing stuff,” she answers dryly, shoving her wolf away and righting her costume. It’s one of her simpler ones, the coyote pelt and the chest harness, some furs and tails hanging off of her belt, dark leggings and knee-high leather boots with fur trim. They alternate which wolf has days off from performing, and when it’s Nymeria’s turn Arya will wear peace-tied weapons as well, and an intricately carved wooden mug she got from Sandor as a gift for her twenty-first nameday. Sometimes she ties bells around her boots just to help get attention when she goes on her rounds shouting showtimes. With all the fur and leather, Ygritte, who is an actual authentic North-of-the-Wall Freefolk, once looked at her and said jokingly that she was ‘almost half of a spearwife’. Coming from Ygritte, it was definitely a compliment.

The getup isn’t  _ entirely _ historically accurate (she got the leggings at Walmart, after all), but it  _ looks _ dope as hell, which is really more what the spirit of the festival is about. A nod to history, but like. A super theatrical and over-the-top nod.

“Calm down,” she fusses at Nymeria, who cheerfully ignores her, and then explains, “I had to help out one of the acts at Braavosi. I think the knife thrower’s partner is missing or something.”

Jon smiles a little wider, but not too much. Jon’s never really been a smiler. He smiles with his eyes, and even those smiles seem sort of sad. “Ned won’t be too chuffed then,” he says with a shrug. He never calls Dad, Dad. Only Ned, or Eddard if Mom is around. “Not if you were helping someone out.”

And he won’t. Dad’s super about community, or whatever. Looking out for your fellow performers and cast and stuff. He might be salty that she almost didn’t show, but at least he won’t be mad at her over  _ why. _ Actually, maybe Dad knows what’s up with Jaqen’s ladyfriend. He’s the co-owner of the whole damn company,  _ and _ the festival president’s best friend, and if Robert Baratehon is going to gossip with anyone about cast problems it’d be Dad.

“Watch her for me?” Arya asks him, shoving at Nymeria once more. Jon shrugs in reply, and Arya makes her way backstage to where Bran and Rickon and the boys wait in the wings, just out of sight of the crowd. Her younger brothers make annoying younger brother noises at her, and she elbows Rick in the stomach when he reaches out to tousle her hair, but she waves until she catches Robb’s eye on stage while Dad is talking and gives him a thumbs-up. He nods just barely in acknowledgement before his attention is back on the crowd. Robb’s due to inherent, which Arya’s fine with; more responsibility, more problems. She’s content playing with the wolves and dressing up like a loon all day.

Their last set is their longest one, and the only one where all of the wolves come out except Lady. She and the boys listen to Robb and Dad talk, give the same speeches that she’s had memorized for years. The cultural importance of direwolves in the North, their habitats and feeding habits, their biology. Grey Wind’s always out with Robb, just standing beside him quietly. He’s probably the best behaved wolf after Lady, but he's not very tolerant of strangers so they don't let him walk the grounds. Either way, he's definitely leaps and bounds ahead of Arya’s own doofy brat. She’s tried to train Nymeria, honestly she  _ has, _ but Nym’s got too much of the wild in her.

When he’s called out, Bran comes out with Summer and they walk up and down the aisle, Bran’s hand firmly on Summer’s harness, to let the audience see them up close. Even though he’s the second smallest wolf, he’s still much bigger than Lady, so even the people in the crowd who got to stop and pet her during the day are impressed by his size whenever he passes by. (They used to do that with Nymeria too, but once a patron held out a turkey leg for her and now the dumb mutt only wants to go back to that one row of benches and sniff around for more.)

For his turn, Rickon comes out with the reinforced bite gloves and wrestles with Shaggydog on stage, which is a common everyday occurrence for the Starks but makes the audience go wild with anticipation and fear to hear the direwolf snarling and snapping, his fur bristled and wild. Shaggy has never broken the skin when he plays with Rick, but Arya would absolutely not trust him to do that with any of the other Stark kids. Still, from a patron’s perspective, it must be sort of terrifying to see the huge canine baring his teeth and throwing Rick around by the arm.

Today Nymeria has arguably the best job one of the direwolves can get; Arya wheels out a massive pumpkin on a hand truck and Dad talks about their bite force and jaw strength as Nymeria eagerly tears into the massive gourd, easily ripping through the thick skin of the pumpkin after only a few tries. Her dewclaws gouge into the gourd to hold it in place as she chews and she gets pumpkin guts all over herself and the stage; that’s why she’s got this job, because she’s the most food-motivated and has the worst attention span. If Summer had done is earlier then she’d have spent all of her turn scouring the stage with her tongue to try to lick up any stray bits of pumpkin.

All Arya really has to do is stand there and make sure Nymeria doesn’t do something silly, like wander off into the audience. It’s pretty easy and she appreciates it, especially after spending almost an hour onstage with Jaqen and having to actively engage the patrons. It kind of puts things into perspective, a little. Suddenly she kind of understands the need for the shitty jokes and banter; eat up time, and keep the audience entertained. With the wolves, the Starks get to just  _ explain _ things.

Ghost always gets the best reactions: the crowd gasps and murmurs when the massive albino stalks out from the stage wings, Jon at his shoulder. He’s the only one who does something actually approaching a traditional  _ trick, _ and that’s to stand on his hind legs, placing his front paws on Jon’s shoulder while Jon braces himself against the weight, to show off how tall he actually is. Some people come expecting to see them do silly things, like play dead or roll over or do tumbling tricks, but the wolves are too smart for that, too proud. Even Nymeria would turn her nose up for a treat if Arya tried to make her  _ shake _ for it.

Dad reminds the crowd of that often-- the wolves aren’t dogs. They’re not  _ pets. _ These direwolves are bonded to the Starks, but they’re not  _ tame. _ He talks about direwolves in the wild, and how they’re not inherently aggressive but should never be approached by humans, how their habitats are being destroyed due to human expansion into wild areas, how their numbers are decreasing. The Wolves of Winterfell isn’t really a show meant for entertainment, it’s for education, which is something that Arya’s always been aware of but has a new appreciation for after being a part of Jaqen’s act, which is  _ definitely _ supposed to entertain, and relies on that entertainment.

To wrap up, Robb tells the crowd that any donations received go to the Wolves of Winterfell wildlife preservation fund; the Starks, as the North’s oldest and most prominent family, own a reservation that makes up most of the Wolfswood and some open land in the Gift where the current largest pack of wild direwolves South-of-the-Wall live. Uncle Brandon is in charge of that, while Eddard and his kids “travel around to educate people one-on-one about these beautiful, endangered animals.” (Dad’s words. Arya thinks he’s just secretly always been a nerd and that’s why he started a RenFest company with his best friend.)

Then, for their finale, all of the wolves come on stage together and howl. They turn the mics off because otherwise the speakers would bust; it’s a marvelous cacophony of noise, a haunting chorus that Arya knows for a fact can be heard not only everywhere on the grounds, but for miles around the surrounding area. Grey Wind starts, and then a few seconds later Nymeria joins in, and then Shaggy, and then Summer, and from the paddock behind the pavilion Lady starts as well. All of the wolves sing but Ghost, who Arya has never heard make a peep, and who just watches his pack howl with bright red eyes.

She hears it on a daily basis, but even still she can feel her heart pounding, her blood begin to pump, some inherent wild magic in the song that calls out to her, to the center of her, to leap and run and hunt. Sometimes it’s hard not to skinslip on accident when all the wolves howl together. She knows without a doubt that there’s someone in the audience tearing up-- they always have at least one crier who gets overwhelmed by it.

At Robb’s behest, the guests wait until the wolves are back offstage before breaking into roaring applause, and Arya and her brothers lead the wolves back to the paddock to the sound of clapping and cheering and whistling. Nymeria is still licking pumpkin guts from her snout; there’s some strings dried up around her ears and neck that she won’t be able to reach. Ugh. She’s gonna have to brush that out before it matts into the undercoat.

After the show the kids usually split up. The grounds don’t close to the public until six in the evening so even though they just had their last show of the day there’s some time to kill before they have to break everything down. It’s Strangersday, the last show day of the week, so there will be a wrap-up party somewhere after cannon. There’s  _ always _ a wrap-up party, somewhere; whether it’s just in the tent city the crew lives in on-grounds during the show season, or they find somewhere to party in the actual city. Usually a whole slew of cast members go out for drinks and songs and take over a pub, chasing everyone in plainsclothes out with their weird period costumes and their ancient drinking songs and sea shanties.

Pretty Pia’s is the popular one in Harrenhal, usually; she knows that Bran and Rickon are going there later with the Reeds, who work one of the leather shops (they specialize in lizard-lion leather, which is  _ cool as hell _ and Arya  _ cannot wait _ to commission some pieces from them). She might join them; Harrenhal's got some nice local brews and she likes the Reeds well enough. Better than hanging out in the RV all night, listening to Mom and Dad count out the donation haul while Robb talks to his fiancee back in Riverrun on the phone.

But that’s hours away so she's got time to decide what she wants to do. Right  _ now, _ Arya’s got a date with an undercoat rake.

“Hold  _ still, _ ” she hisses to Nymeria as she works a comb through the thick, dense, sticky pumpkin-covered fur around her throat and ears.

“ _ WHAA WHAA WHAAAAA! _ ” Nymeria shrieks, tail lashing and teeth barred, flailing as though she’s just tortured instead of brushed.

Arya, sitting on her ass on the ground in the wolves’ paddock, puts Nym into a headlock, struggling to hold on as the stupid animal rolls in her arms. “Will you stop that?!”

Nym continues screaming, a high-pitched “ _ WHAAAAAAAAAA!!” _ right in Arya’s ear. This was so much easier when she was the size of a normal dog and not a fucking pony.

The rest of the wolves, tuckered out from their busy day of expending minimal effort to stand around and look impressive for money (except for Lady, of course, who arguably works the hardest of all of them), are curled in one big fluffy cuddlepuddle and watching with five sets of curious eyes. Thankfully the lot of them are familiar enough with Nymeria’s dramatics to know that she’s not actually in pain or anything; all the wolves  _ like _ Arya, but she’s not sure they wouldn’t go on the defensive if they thought she was a threat to one of the pack.

“A little help here?” she calls out to the pile of fluff, and immediately the other wolves all turn away, casually pretending not to hear her over their pack-sister’s  _ whoooaoaoaaaoooaaa _ of imagined agony. All except for Ghost, who continues to stare at her for another long moment, as if contemplating whether or not he cares enough to cow Nymeria into obedience for her, before opening his mouth in a wide yawn and then resting his head onto Lady’s back, blinking sleepily.

“Asshole,” Arya grumbles, and then lets out a startled “ _ Oof! _ ” when Nymeria slams a paw into her stomach.

Nymeria actually stops struggling and turns to look at her in concern, as surprised as Arya had been that she’d accidentally hurt her, and Arya takes the opportunity to strike out with the comb, managing to get it into the fur beneath the wolf’s ear and tug. A chunk of dried pumpkin guts comes out, as well as a huge tuft of undercoat, and immediately Nym starts screaming again with comical betrayal.

“If you weren’t such a messy eater,” Arya says with a grunt, “we wouldn’t have to do this  _ every time! _ ” After another few moments of struggle she manages to wrestle Nymeria completely to the ground, straddling the wolf’s neck and holding her down to attack at her fur with the comb, breathing heavily as she does so. “Next time I’m telling them to let Summer have the treat!” 

Summer’s head pops up from the middle of the pile of wolves, his ears pricked eagerly. He lets out an enthusiastic bark and immediately Nymeria stops struggling, going still beneath Arya with such suddenness that she actually goes off balance and plops backwards onto her bum in the dirt. Nym narrows her eyes at Summer and lifts her lip in a growl until the smaller wolf hunkers back down amongst their siblings in disappointment, then she stares at Arya sullenly.

Of course. She should have led with threats.

This time when Arya runs the comb over Nymeria’s fur, she doesn’t so much as flinch, just glares out into the distance. “Thank you,” Arya says sarcastically as she sets to work.

As ever when she’s finally forced into submission, after a minute or so Nymeria begins to enjoy the brushing, her eyes closing and muscles relaxing as she splays out in the grass while Arya digs the pumpkin guts from her fur. After that is the slicker brush to get the loose coat, and then the undercoat rake; and Nym, for all of her earlier screaming, is in heaven, positively purring as she’s groomed. It’s a good thing Arya had changed into the street clothes they keep backstage, because otherwise she’d be getting fur and grass stains all over her  _ incredibly expensive _ costume.

“Roll over for me,” she says after a few minutes, and Nym blinks lazily before complying, flipping herself around with a graceless flop of her legs so that Arya can get to work brushing the other side.

It’s rhythmic and mindless work that she enjoys-- Nymeria is silly and sort of a shit, but she’s  _ Arya’s, _ some piece of her soul that walks outside of her body, or however Warg bonding works. Even when they’re fighting she never feels more complete than when she’s with her wolf. That’s why she loves this job. More than the costumes, more than the activities, more than the food and the music and the other performers and the cool nerd shit, more than anything: she’s not sure how she could spend as much time with Nymeria as she does if she had any other job than the one she does. And it’s important, they’re doing important things, teaching people about direwolves and helping conservation efforts, raising money and raising awareness.

That she gets to dress up like a dumbfuck and eat turkey legs all day while she does it is just the icing on the cake.

She’s so into the activity, her mind almost drifting off into the trance-like state that prolonged contact with Nymeria can sometimes cause, something close to skinslipping, that she doesn’t even hear him approach, and doesn’t know he’s there until he clears his throat.

Blinking, Arya sits up from where she’s leaning over Nymeria’s neck and glances over her shoulder. Jaqen stands a small distance from the other side of the fence, still in his costume, with a wooden box under one arm. He lifts the other hand in greeting and opens his mouth to speak, then freezes as a chorus of rumbling growls erupts from the pile of direwolves a few feet away from her. When Arya looks at them, all five of Nymeria’s siblings have lifted their heads to stare at Jaqen, ears alert and hackles raised. Even sweet little Lady looks prepared to leap to her feet.

“Guys,” Arya says sharply in reprimand.

The growling stops, but they all continue to watch him warily. Nymeria, for her part, just yawns sleepily, likely feeling Arya’s own lack of hostility towards the stranger through their bond.

“Sorry,” she says after a moment of glaring at the other wolves, turning back to Jaqen. She snorts out a laugh when she realises that he’s backed up a few paces. “You’re fine, don’t worry. They’re harmless.” At his look of disbelief, she shrugs. “You know... mostly.”

“A man can return later,” Jaqen says, eyeing the wolves and then glancing at the fence, looking it up and down as if trying to calculate whether or not it’s tall enough to actually keep them inside. (It’s not. Any one of them, even Lady, could jump it if they wanted to. It’s mostly just for show, or if a patron manages to get drunk and wander off path and behind the pavilion.) “It is not urgent.”

Arya stands up and dusts off her jeans, knocking dirt and bits of grass from her knees and butt. It’s kind of weird, being around Jaqen in civvies, especially since he’s still wearing his getup.

To be fair, it looks good on him; he’s definitely going for a roguish Essosi look with tight black trousers and a loose, long-sleeved blouse that’s opened a little rakishly down the front, and dark-dyed leather braces and belting. A bandolier of piece-tied knives is slung across his waist; the set he uses for his shows are definitely not peace-tied, so these must be props, either dulled as fuck or wood painted to look like metal. Like pretty much every performer in the company, he’s got some tails tied to his belt, dark grey fox and raccoon. She’s not really sure what the deal is with the tails, she just knows everyone, including herself, wears them. His hair, longer and prettier than her own (which admittedly isn't much of an achievement considering her own hair, as Sansa loved to tell her often when they were younger and more contentious, has the texture of old straw), is tied back into a tail itself, probably to keep it out of his eyes when he's doing his tricks.

Still. It's weird. Literally like meeting a coworker you rarely talk to out on the street or something.

"No, it's fine," she says, bending to pick up her grooming tools, "we were just finishing anyway." Nymeria lifts her head and whines, pawing at Arya's knee as if to say,  _ no we weren't, don't stop, sorry I yelled, I'm not that person anymore. _ Arya just hops away from her, chuckling when the wolf plops her head back down onto the ground with an insulted huff. When she looks back at him, Jaqen is smiling at the antics, too. "What's up?"

He takes the wooden box from under his arm and gives it a light shake; the contents inside give a familiar, musically metallic rattle. "A man has come to give a girl her share of the last show's donations. She certainly earned her part."

Arya hesitates. What's the protocol for this? She's never helped a fellow performer out in such a hands-on way, she's only ever stepped in for the vendors before and she certainly never expected a cut of  _ their _ profit. But would it be rude to refuse? Or rude to accept? Shit, she wishes she could ask Dad before answering.

"I don't-- I mean, it's  _ your _ show, Jaqen," she settles on finally, chewing on her lip. His eyes drift down to her mouth and she stops, self-conscious; she's been told dozens of times that the habit doesn't look good to patrons, it's too unprofessional. As a showman he's probably judging her for it.

"A show she provided much-needed assistance for," Jaqen says after a moment, blinking as his gaze cuts away from her mouth and back up to her own eyes. "A man insists. Please. He would feel remiss, it is the very least he can do for her for the help, to give her her due." 

Well, after that it would almost be insulting if she turned him away, though it still seems…  _ wrong, _ sort of, for her to take his money. After all,  _ he _ was the one throwing knives and expending effort. She just stood there as someone for him to bounce jokes off of. Anyone could have done it, it's not like she was  _ special. _

"Well, alright," she says finally, knocking the last bits of grass from her tush and walking towards him, slipping through the wooden bars of the fence with a grunt and already planning on how she'll take the money and just slowly give it back to him as donations to his show over the rest of the season, "if a man  _ insists. _ Let's go backstage though, I think the wolves are sizing you up for a snack."

Jaqen glances over her shoulder to where all of the wolves except Nymeria, who's still blissed out in a freshly-brushed grooming coma, are indeed staring at him disconcertingly. Shaggy even has a thick string of drool hanging from his jaw, his mouth literally watering in anticipation, and Arya bites her lip once more to hide a grin as Jaqen gives a full-bodied shudder.

"Please," he agrees readily, and falls into step beside her as they leave the paddock and head towards the side door of the backstage area of the pavilion. "A man has no interest in ending such a fine day as a meal to a girl's wolves."

"Only the dumb one is mine," Arya corrects dryly, holding the door open for him since his hands are full with the box. "The others are my sibling's. Can't claim all of them. You know you don't have to talk like that when you're not in character, right? I'm not a guest, it's cool."

He's silent for a long enough moment that she looks up at him curiously. His smile has that pinched quality again that it'd had on stage, tight at the corners of his eyes. "I mean, unless you're, like, method or something," she backtracks quickly, unsure of how she'd insulted him but suddenly convinced that she has. Some of the cast get  _ weirdly _ into character, after all; she'll still not sure if Jaime is actually as pompous as he seems, or if he's just a phenomenal actor, and Dany takes her banished-princess-mother-of-dragons role  _ waaaay _ too seriously.

"Ah, no," he says, setting the box down on the bench that Arya has her coyote pelt cloak spread out on. He makes to run a hand through his hair before remembering it's tied back and stops the motion with a grimace. "A man is just... actually a Lorathi. Not playacting one."

Arya gapes at him, then flushes violently. "Holy shit, I am so sorry," she says, mortified. "I thought it was-- gods, that was so rude--"

"It is fine," he assures her, helping himself to a chair with a sigh. "All is well, no disrespect meant." He takes the tie from his hair and shakes it out, sending a cascade of red across his shoulders, and-- is that-- yeah, he's got some white strikes at the side. She'd call it another affectation to character, she knows Aegon dyes his blue regularly for his Young Griff gig, but given her blunder with his speech now she's hesitant to assume. He fingercombs his hair out and says, with something approaching resignation, "I can talk differently if it would make you more comfortable. I know in Westeros the difference in speaking can be... disconcerting."

"Dude," she says with a wince, taking a seat beside him at the table, her voice weak, "I'm  _ the worst, _ please don't-- talk however  _ you _ feel comfortable, I'm not offended at all, I'm just  _ stupid as fuck-- _ "

Jaqen interrupts her babbling, placing a hand over her own on the table and squeezing it lightly. When she musters up the courage to finally look at him again his mouth is quirked into another smile, this one less strained. There are calluses on his fingers where they brush against her own, and when she remembers his teasing flirtations from earlier, paired with this little smile, her face flushes again for a different reason than embarrassment.

"All is well," he tells her again, more gently. When his hand lifts from hers, her knuckles feel cooler, missing the warmth. What the fuck? It's spring, she should be  _ cooking _ in the heat backstage, not giving a little shiver. "A man knows now she did not mean to give offense. It is difficult, given their work, to discern that which is true and which is fabricated for purposes of theatre. He appreciates her acceptance of his dialect."

Wait.

Oh gods.

Is he actually...  _ nice? _

He probably catches a lot of flack about how he talks in Westeros, especially the inner areas of the country that don’t see much Essosi immigration. Even some of the other performers in the company, a group that by-and-large is utterly accepting of any race or religion, had balked a little at having the Essosi group join them last season, and she can’t imagine the number of tiny, casually racist interactions he’s had to deal with from  _ patrons. _

He’s always seemed like such a tool onstage, but now he’s forgiving her for being super offensive and is willing to give up his comfort for hers?

Holy shit, he’s actually  _ nice. _

Arya stares at him for several seconds. His eyes are, like, super blue. She feels heat creeping up in her cheeks again, and when she finally finds her voice, all she can think to give in response is a squeaky, “Yeah, totally.” His smile widens into a grin and she clears her throat. “So, uh,” she says after a moment to collect herself, “tips?”

“Tips,” he agrees, his own voice warm, and undoes the latch on the wooden box. There’s a little less cash in there than she’d been expecting, but he just hums under his breath as he takes money out and starts to count, gesturing for her to do the same. She’s still not entirely sure if this is rude or not, more bad form on his part, to let her so intimately see how much money he makes from his act, but now that she’s actually spent time  _ talking _ to him she doesn’t think he’s a jerk anymore. Certainly he hasn’t given her the impression that this is some weird powerplay thing.

Honestly it feels more like… well, it feels like when Mom and Dad count out the donations from their own show. Arya has fond childhood memories, hazy with age, of laying in her mother’s lap, head resting against her chest, and dozing off to the vibrations of her talking quietly to Dad as they discussed the haul of the day.

This doesn’t have the same level of comfort as that, obviously; after all, this is literally the first time she’s ever actually  _ hung out _ with Jaqen, much less been  _ alone _ with him, and as ever when she’s in a situation that she isn’t one hundred percent comfortable with her body is constantly aware of his, some part of her on edge and prepared to go on the defensive at a moment’s notice. But… even despite that, it feels kind of nice. Like she doesn’t have to fill the silence with chatter to keep it from being awkward.

She’s not sure what she’d expected, honestly. Maybe she’d thought that he’d spend the entire time obnoxiously fake flirting with her? Or being arrogant somehow? But he’s not, he’s just counting, his expression fallen into a neutral at-ease position. The corners of his lips turn up very slightly into a natural smile, so even when he’s focused on his work it looks like he’s laughing a little at some private joke.

His eyes glance up to meet hers briefly and she realizes she’s staring so she jerks her head back down. He snorts out a breath, just a soft  _ heh _ through his nose, and now that smile is just a bit wider.

She hopes that private joke he’s laughing at isn’t her.

The silence still isn’t awkward, even after that, but the longer the works the more curious she is, so after a good ten minutes of counting, when they’ve got about a quarter of the box left, she finally asks, “So, why did you need help today? Where’s the lady you normally work with?” Then, quickly, aware that she’s been rude to him once already, she follows up with, “If you don’t mind me asking, I mean.”

Jaqen hums under his breath, a soft  _ mmm _ of acknowledgement, but it takes him a moment to answer. “A man does not mind. It has become a girl’s business, considering he pulled her forcibly into it. He apologizes for that, by the way. It was rude to do so but a man was growing increasingly desperate.” He sighs and sets the money to the side, writing the total on a small slip of paper he’d had stashed at the bottom of the box for just such a purpose to not lose his count, and once done leans back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest. Arya steals the paper briefly to write her own pile’s total, and then mirrors his position.

He seems to be thinking, his eyes turned towards the ceiling, and finally says, “A man’s normal partner is his sister.” Arya blinks, confused; they look absolutely nothing alike. When he sees her expression he huffs another laugh and clarifies, “This man was adopted. As was his sister.” ( _ Oh gods he’s got a tragic backstory. _ ) Again he must read her thoughts on her face because he gives another, softer laugh and assures her gently, “It is not so bad as it seems, their father ran a foster home for youths in Braavos, he is a very kindly man. This man came to the house when he was young, and he has had many siblings there over the years. Time has grown most of them apart, but he is still close with some, and his small sister especially.”

There is another long moment of hesitation; Jaqen’s gaze is back on the ceiling and his eyes are pinched again, strained, so she doesn’t prod, just shifts in her seat and waits for him to continue. “Their father fell ill,” he admits, his jaw tightening, “at the end of the last show season.”

“Shit,” Arya says quietly, guilty that she’d asked. “You don’t have to talk about this if you don’t want to, Jaqen.”

He glances back down at her and smiles after a few seconds, the expression subdued. “It is fine. A man and his sister went back to Braavos briefly. Their father is on the mend, but his sister stayed there to see to his recovery.” He heaves a big sigh, and then says with a shrug, his smile turning sardonic, “Alas, time waits for no man, and money must be made. So this man came back to perform while his sister stayed.”

“You could have taken a leave,” she argues. Gods, now she  _ really _ doesn’t want to take his money. “I could talk to my dad for you? He could probably get Uncle Robert to sign off on it. Perks of being one of the company owner’s kids, my nepotism is your nepotism.”

Jaqen shakes his head, though his smile seems more genuine now. “A man thanks her, but no. He and his sister are still new to this company. Their position is not tenuous, but it would reflect poorly to beg time off after only one season.” Then he winces, and a laugh is startled out of her at his sheepish expression as he admits, “Though truthfully, a man did not anticipate how difficult the act would be to perform by himself. He must call his sister tonight and express gratitude for her partnership these many years, it has been much more trying than he’d believed it would be without her.”

Then he reaches out and takes her hand again, his blue eyes intense. He’s more touchy-feely than she’d anticipated him being. “This man thanks you as well, lovely girl. It has been exhausting, if he is honest, to play both parts in a two-man act, and much of it is reliant on having someone there to speak with. Keeping audience attention by one’s self is tenuous at best. A girl is recognizable from her own show, and she is of a similar height and temperament to a man’s sister, so much of the material of his normal script could be used with little adjustment.”

Arya keeps her own smile, careful not to let it slip even though there’s a little swoop in her gut. Ah, okay. That’s why he picked her. She should have known. Didn’t have anything really to do with  _ Arya, _ it was just because she’s a good stand-in for his sister.

What did she expect, anyway? She knew the flirting was just for show, just a gimmick to keep the guests amused. The only reason he didn’t call Sansa up on stage was because she’s too  _ tall. _ He probably flirts with every female cast member that passes by during his shows. She’s not special.

She already knew that it was fake, that’s why she was annoyed with it before. What changed in the last few hours to make her think otherwise? Why would she have tricked herself into thinking it was legit? Because he smiles at her and touches her hand and forgives her when she’s accidentally a shit about him being Lorathi?

She gives that little swooping feeling inside of her a poke. What is that? Is that disappointment? Stop it. Don’t fucking expect anything. Why did she even let herself in the first place?

“I’m glad I could help,” she says, and she even means it, even though she knows she’s going to scratch at that little feeling inside of her until it becomes a raw spot that hurts every time she thinks about it. “Harrenhal can be a tough crowd, but honestly it seemed like you had them eating out of your hands even before you called me up.”

Jaqen’s smile widens and he squeezes her hand once more before letting go. “A man will not debate the flattery, he is happy to accept such praise from a lovely girl.” --okay she hates him again  _ stop it it’s not nice-- _ “But he still maintains that her presence made the day an ultimate success. The two of them work well together, a man and a girl.”

She gives that spot inside of her another vicious stab, but she’s sure that her expression hasn’t changed. Thank you, Izembaro. “Well,” she says, “you’re welcome.”

The two of them go back to counting, though they’re almost done, and it doesn’t take much time to finish. Between this and brushing Nymeria earlier, she’s sure that it’s almost close to cannon; not much point in putting the costume back on and going out. Her brothers have probably already gathered at the gates to heckle the patrons as they leave, and Sansa is likely wrapping her one actual show-- she and Clegane meet up outside his tent, and she sings while he plays guitar. They aren’t really an official act, but they get a surprising number of tips for the performance. Probably the whole beauty-and-the-beast thing. Guests love to hear Sansa’s high and fluting voice regaling tales of honor and courtly love while Sandor broodingly strums in the background, giving the back of her head droopy puppydog eyes as she sings. Like Arya’s, her accent isn’t quite so thickly Northern as their brothers, but she does a few songs in the native First Men language, the rough burr rolling from her tongue like honey.

Jaqen’s last act had a fairly good haul, though smaller than the ones she’s used to hearing her parents count out from their own show, and once they’ve finished their count they argue about how much she should take as her share. He says an even split, she says a quarter; “It’s  _ your _ act and  _ your _ materials,” she insists. “I was just a warm body for you to bounce off of.”

His eyebrows shoot up, that familiar delighted smirk sliding across his face, reminding her of all the innuendo he’d pelted her with onstage. Arya feels her own face positively catch fire. “Bounce  _ jokes _ off of! I didn’t mean it like that!”

“Of course, of course,” he chuckles, running a hand through his hair again with a grin as sharp as a knife. He’s got a hint of red on his own cheeks, blooming just where they meet his ears. He’s paler than he usually is, and now she knows it’s probably a combination of stress and exhaustion, but still more tan than anyone in her own family. The blush gives him a fetching bit of color. (Stop that! He didn’t mean the flirting and neither did she!)

Eventually she wins; years of being stuck in an RV with her siblings has made her a master at arguing, and even as she collects her earnings she begins plotting how to subtly give it all back to him. After all, what’s she going to spend it on? More shit here at the festival? Robb and Sansa are the only kids with student loans, and Arya doesn’t have any outstanding debt, courtesy of a transient lifestyle. He probably needs the money more than she does.

As he packs his things away, Arya bites her lip again. “Do you know how long your sister is going to be in Braavos?”

Jaqen slows his movements, the easy smile that seems to be his face at rest dimming a little. “For some time, more like as not. She has always been close to our father, she will want to make sure he is well taken care of.”

She hesitates. That little disappointed raw spot inside of her still hurts, but she gives it another determinedly vicious scratch. “If you need help with your show this season, like I did today… I could probably swing it. Get one of my brothers to do the bell thing. We’d have to work out scheduling, I think one of your sets overlaps with one of ours, but it’s doable, I think.” Then she gives him a frown of mock-disapproval, trying not to smile and ignoring that stupid swooping feeling when she sees that he’s grinning again, looking pleasantly surprised. “And I’ll know to  _ expect _ it, and not have you pull me off the street without warning.”

There’s a boyish eagerness on his voice even as he demurs, “A man would hate to take up a lovely girl’s time…” The way he says it makes it seem like maybe he wouldn’t actually hate that at all. Asshole. “They would have to practice together during the week, he thinks. To really familiarize her with the material.”

Arya shrugs and chews her lip. “I don’t do much during the week anyway,” she admits. “It’d give me something to do. At least until your sister comes back.”

“And her family would not be angry with this man for stealing her?” Damn him, but even that concern seems genuine!

With a shake of a head she says, “My dad is super cool about helping other performers out. He wouldn’t mind.” Her brothers… well, they’d probably give her shit about it, the same way they gave her shit when she started hanging out with Gendry, but she’s used to ignoring them. Or punching them until they leave her alone.

Whatever he’s about to say is interrupted by the sound of a cannon blast: six in the evening, and the park is officially closed. Patrons will be gently shepherded out by the festival’s security, the drunk ones collected and held onto until they dry out, and performers across the grounds will break into their secret alcohol (and, depending on the performer, probably drug) stashes to celebrate the end of another successful weekend. “You should head out before my brothers descend,” she warns him, her voice joking but the words serious, “otherwise you’ll never be able to leave with your sanity intact.”

Jaqen scratches at his chin and nods. “Yes, a man should return to his own stage. It takes a while to break down by himself.” He blinks, then catches himself and says quickly, “That was not him trying to guilt a girl into helping, merely a statement.” Her laugh seems to set him at ease, and he smiles once more, looking relieved. “A man genuinely cannot thank her enough. She does not have to help for the season if she does not wish, but he would be very happy to…” That smile shifts into a smirk again, teasing, and his stupidly blue eyes go hooded in a practiced look of heat that she’s seen him level at women in his audience to make them giggle and blush. “...bounce off of her,” he finishes after a small pause, and then dodges away with a laugh when she swings a punch at him that only halfway playful.

He picks up his wooden donation box and hauls it under his arm again, and as he heads towards the door Arya stops him, calling out, “Hey, Jaqen?” He turns back to her, a look of amused curiosity on his face that makes her not want to say what she’s about to say. But she just… she wants to help him, she does, because now that she’s actually talked to him she doesn’t think he’s that bad of a guy.

But she also doesn’t want that raw spot that she’s picked inside of herself to grow.

“In the future, can we, like… maybe tone down the flirting?” The easy smile on his face falls into something like guilt, and when he opens his mouth to reply she talks over him, speaking quickly so that she gets it all out while she has the courage to. “It’s not like-- some of it is okay, I get that it’s the character and the show and stuff, it’s not real, it’s just for the audience-- Just--” She takes a deep breath and then gives a helpless little shrug. “The constant fake flirting is-- a lot. You know?”

Jaqen tilts his head at her, listening as she babbles, and when she’s done he gives a considering frown. Slowly, he nods. “A man understands,” he says after a moment, and nods again. “From now on, he will make sure she knows the flirting is real.”

Her jaw drops slightly and his face breaks into another grin as she gapes at him.  _ The fucking audacity-- _

“Goodbye, very lovely girl,” he says cheerfully, turning away from her once more and opening the door that leads back outside. “A man looks forward to the bouncing!” It closes behind him in a bang, but not a bang loud enough to drown out his laughter, or her offended sputtering.

* * *

That night, laying in the top bunk of hers and Sansa’s bunkbed, Arya pokes that little swooping feeling inside of her, that warm little clench in her gut that wiggles a little whenever she thinks about Jaqen’s smile or his eyes or the way he’d looked so genuinely appreciative of her. She thinks about spending time with him, learning his set, performing in front of an audience with him again. She thinks about the flirting. And how maybe it was real.

“Shit,” she announces to the ceiling of the RV. Beneath her, from the bottom bunk, Sansa gives a half-asleep grunt of question. “Nothing,” she says. Sansa doesn’t argue, and a few moments later her tiny squeaky snores start back up.

Arya takes a deep breath. “Shit,” she says again, quieter.

She’s got a crush on the bloody knife guy.


End file.
